


In January, We're Getting Married

by mrsvc



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic, Literally Gross, M/M, Snapshots, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsvc/pseuds/mrsvc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's roommates, and then there's Jordan Eberle and Taylor Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In January, We're Getting Married

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minshinki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minshinki/gifts).



> THIS IS ALL BECAUSE MY FRIENDS ARE THE WORST PEOPLE. THEY WERE LIKE, "JAK, HAVE YOU SEEN EBS AND HALLSY? HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR FACES? HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR APARTMENT?" AND NOW I HAVE AND I REGRET MY LIFE CHOICES AND EBBY'S TOOTH GAP TOTALLY BRINGS ALL THE BOYS AND GIRLS TO THE YARD. 
> 
> Yes, I am only writing married fics now. It's a thing, deal with it. 
> 
> This fic was affectionately called "Married Toddlers" for its life in my Google Docs.

Jordan probably should have known better than to tweet that picture of the full sized candy bars for the whole team to see. It wasn’t long before he got at least three texts that said “i’m coming over, save me one” and Nuge was already laying dibs on certain brands.

“We’re probably going to get some grown-up guests,” he warns Taylor, because he’s a good friend like that. It’s not like Hallsy particularly cares; they both could have gone out to a Halloween party tonight, but had chosen to stay in and hand out candy to the kids in their complex. It was to be expected that, at some point, drunk teammates in bad costumes would come over to embarrass them.

“Do we have enough candy?” Taylor’s poking listlessly at the potted plant that sits on their counter. It’s not the same one that Jordan carried in on their first day together, but someone keeps buying them replacements every time the last one dies or gets killed by some serious over-watering or neglect. Taylor tries to love their sad, little house plants into sticking it out with them for more than a week or so at a time, but Jordan thinks maybe Taylor loves a little too much, and the plants die to escape.

Sometimes, Jordan thinks that death is the only way he’s going to escape Hallsy, too, but he’s not in any hurry to do either, so it all works out.

“No.”

It’s kind of really pathetic, Jordan thinks, shaking the bucket a little. They only bought enough for the kids in the building. Hallsy seems to be on the same line of thought, though, because he peers over Jordan’s shoulder and says, “fuck it, they’re not getting any candy unless they show up in costume.”

Nuge, of course, doesn’t disappoint.

\-----

Things have changed over the years - billeting teammates and line changes aside - but living together had always been easy for them. Jordan knows they didn’t do a great job to start with stuff like “stocking their pantry” or “decorating” but fuck the guys, their jerseys totally counted on decor. So what if all their major accomplishments had happened together and it’s totally easier to agree on hanging the framed puck from their first game on the wall than to dig through the stacks of lithographs at the furniture store and try to agree on art.

But the actual act of living together? That had always been easy.

Jordan knows he’s probably not the easiest guy to live with - he’s got quirks just like everyone else. He totally fails at cooking anything that isn’t Kraft Dinner or something else that comes half in a box and half from the fridge and he thinks that vacuuming when you can’t see the dust is stupid, but it works out okay for them because Hallsy can’t be bothered to want to expand his horizons beyond pre-packaged, semi-homemade meals and he likes vacuuming. They don’t fight over whose turn it is to do the dishes because Jordan does them before Hallsy has to a chance to, and the bills are always paid because Taylor is set them up a joint checking account and everything comes out automatically every month without them having to worry about mail piling up at the doorstep on road trips or ever having to think about running out of stamps.

Hallsy’s not perfect, either, but Jordan’s sort of over the idea of looking for perfection. Hallsy can’t wash clothes to save his life - not that he can’t do it, he’s just not likely to - and he uses all of Jordan’s shampoo if one of them doesn’t go to store shortly before he runs out. They pack two bags for trips to the rink, but Taylor never manages to remember his own razor and always shouts for Jordan to let him borrow his.

But really, the benefits outweigh any negatives either of them bring to the table, because Hallsy will make Jordan’s bed if he knows Mrs. Eberle is coming to visit them that day and Jordan throws out Taylor’s socks when the holes in them become too unbearable and buys him a new pack to replace the ruined ones.

It’s sort of a perfect set up.

\-----

Every since the surgery on his shoulder, Taylor gets muscle spasms. He doesn’t like to admit to them, but there are days when he wakes up already sore just from sleeping too hard on it and Jordan can always tell. He holds his upper body still as he walks, moves around objects to reach for things using his good arm instead of just leaning his long torso across something, and - if Jordan watches carefully - he catches the winces Taylor tries to hide when the muscle locks up on him and makes him stop breathing for a second.

The muscle relaxers fuck Taylor up too much to take consistently. The last time he took one, he crashed on the couch for about fifteen hours, and only awoke when Jordan shook him  and basically led him on wobbly legs to the bathroom and back to the kitchen to eat.

Taylor does a better than usual job of hiding it. They make it all the way to the rink before Jordan even realizes it’s going to be one of those days, and it’s only because he looks over at the passenger seat and sees Taylor leaning heavily on his good arm and cradling the other against his chest. To anyone else, it might seem casual, but Jordan lives and breathes with the douchebag in the seat next to him, and he knows exactly what the blank looks on Hallsy’s face means.

Skate is rough, only because Jordan spends most of it watching Taylor try not to let on to everyone and coach that he’s in pain, and he only holds out as long as the locker room before he sits down behind Taylor on the bench with a bag of ice and roll of tape.

“You’re going to be really annoying at three tonight when you can’t sleep,” Jordan says, slapping the ice pack on Taylor’s shoulder and taping it in place. “And I’m not going to deal with you bitching and moaning all over the apartment because you won’t take your goddamn meds.”

“Ebby, you know I can’t take them before skate-”

“Yeah,” Jordan says, fitting his fingers around Taylor’s neck and kneading slightly. “The problem's going to be when he get home and you won’t take them then, either.”

Hallsy snorts, mildly affronted, but he doesn’t say anything. He pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his bad arm inside the body of it, letting the sleeve hang empty, and doesn’t even make a sour face when Jordan slings his coat over his shoulders and zips him inside of it.

Jordan’s totally right, because Hallsy goes home and fucks around for a while, only letting Ebs near him when he wants the ice changed on his shoulder, and then fucking back off to stew in peace.

Jordan digs out the prescription bottles, chews on his lip a little when he notices at least one of the pain killers is outdated, googles to see if it will kill Taylor if he takes an outdated pill, finds out the internet is fucking useless for good information like that, and ends up on the phone with a local pharmacist by the time Taylor gives up the macho man routine and curls up on the couch pathetically. He doesn’t wait around to hear the answer to his question. He hangs up with a quick “I’ve got to go” and walks over behind the couch. Hallsy didn’t even bother to stretch out in his spot with his feet up, like he would on a normal day. He just sort of flopped down across the length of the leather sectional and burrowed his face into the pillows.

“You’re the saddest sack I’ve ever seen.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to take your pills now?”

“No.”

Jordan sighs and sits beside Taylor on the couch, resting his hand on the back of Taylor’s head. “You’re so fucking stubborn, Tay. It’s really off-putting.” Taylor doesn’t say anything else, just sort of whines a little when Jordan takes the melted ice pack away. “It’s lukewarm water now, douchebag.”

Jordan has more experience with a whiny, giant baby Taylor Hall than he cares to really think about, but he knows that if he keeps the ice changed and the activity to a minimum, by tomorrow, Taylor will be able to move without looking a couple of seconds from throwing up. He always pushes himself too hard through skates on bad days like this.

He never actually naps, Jordan can tell from the way he holds himself too stiffly in the one comfortable position he can find, but he does doze a little, which is enough for him to stomach sitting up and being a person again.

He tries to goad Ebs into XBox, but Jordan’s playing the long game and he is not fucking up all his hard work by getting into a Call of Duty marathon that makes the muscles in his back and neck seize and shake. He pushes Taylor against the back of the couch and they flip idly through the pay-per-view menu until they find a movie they never made it to see in theatres and waste the rest of the night away on that.

“You’re kind of the worst,” Hallsy says the next morning, handing Ebs a coffee cup and stretching out his shoulder at the same time. He keeps doing the same exercises and motions over and over again, like he’s waiting on a pain that never comes, and smiles when Jordan divvies up a pan of eggs between the two of them.

“Yeah, I know I am.”

\-----

The ice cream store they frequent is a little bit artisanal and a little bit Mom-and-Pop so it’s got everything from your basic vanilla bean to some weird ass lavender-lilac flavor that is violently purple and makes Taylor frown.

“I don’t want to eat flowers,” he’d said, the first time they had stood in front of the display case the night before a game.

Jordan laughed, talked a big game about not being so closed-minded about his ice cream flavors, and silently agreed. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain flowers were edible and he wasn’t in the mood to discover if he was wrong. They rotate between some safe bets - the chocolates and fruit sorbets - before Jordan decides to shake things up a little and orders a caramel-pretzel concoction that had intrigued him last time.  The most disturbing part of it, when Jordan took a bite while Hallsy eyed him dubiously, was the swirls of peanut butter between the layers of crushed pretzel and ice cream. It was more like a giant blob and it stuck to the roof of Jordan’s mouth. No matter how many times he swallowed or took another bite, he couldn’t clear it from his palate.

“This is what you get for being adventurous or whatever, Ebby.”

Jordan takes Taylor’s raspberry and mint sorbet and bites into it with relish. It’s crisp and clean and helps him feel like he can talk again.

“I’ll never understand people who bite ice cream,” Hallsy bitches, taking his cone back and shoving Jordan’s shoulder.

“Just another way I show you up, Hallsy. Talent. Skill.” He pauses for effect and smiles. “Charm.”

Hallsy chuckles, though - like the doofus he is - and breaks off a piece of the sugared waffle cone before passing it back to Jordan. “Whatever gets you through the night, Eberle.”

Jordan kicks him under the table and doesn’t bother to move his feet when Taylor crosses their ankles to keep him from doing it again.

\-----

“I’m pretty sure the kids got dressed in the dark,” Gags says, the minute they walk into morning skate. They both look down at themselves, then at each other, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Neither of them clash, nor is anything turned inside out, so they really can’t see why everyone’s giving them a hard time before they even open their mouths. They are both man enough to admit that, once they start talking, the chirping is kind of expected, but honestly, Jordan doesn’t know what he did yet and it’s making him cranky and defensive.

“What?”

Nuge just shakes his head, because he’s a friend, and lets it pass, but Gags carries on. “Next time you guys want to trade clothes, make sure Hallsy zips up his coat, yeah?”

Jordan notices it, then - the stripe of skin that is peeking out between the waistband of his jeans and the t-shirt that, yeah, is probably Jordan’s. Their situation is not helped out in the slightest by the fact that Taylor’s got his equipment bag swung over his shoulder, dragging more and more of that skin into view and Jordan should probably stop looking and zip up Hallsy’s coat now.

He looks down at himself and, yeah, this is definitely Hallsy's shirt. It's a little too long on him, hanging loosely around his hips where most of his shirts would be snug, and can feel where the collar's been stretched out and chewed on.

Hallsy smiles easily, drops his stuff at his stall, and says, "at least our clothes are clean." He holds his nose as he walks past Gags and jumps back when Sam tries to slap him with a twisted towel.

When practice is over and the guys start dispersing to go home for pre-game naps, Jordan whistles at Hallsy and feints throwing his t-shirt at him. Taylor takes the hint and tosses the too-small shirt to Ebs.

"You guys are disgusting," Nuge smiles.

"Whatever," Jordan says, not bothering to fight it.

"We totally showered, dude."

Taylor always misses the point, but Jordan supposes that if he didn't like that about him, they would have already moved out and gotten separate apartments.

\-----

Jordan's mom is coming for Christmas, so that means they've both got to be on high alert. They spend the whole day before she's set to arrive making sure that the dishwasher is empty and that none of the food in the fridge is expired. Taylor totally waters the plant twice and makes Ebs' bed three times because Jordan keeps fucking it up.

Jordan moves all of Taylor's shit out of the hall bathroom and into his so that his mom can have her own shower while she's staying. They have a third bedroom now, so no one is getting relegated to their admittedly comfortable couch.

"That's, like, really grown up of us," Hallsy says, kicking back in his seat.

Jordan's mom is going to be there in an hour or so, but it's still mid-morning and they don't have any plans, so vegging out on the sectional is the only order of business. Jordan had already dug all of their Christmas decorations out of storage and they had collectively braved the cold yesterday to wrap lights around their balcony bannister.

"What is?"

"Having a guest room."

Jordan laughs. "All it gets used for most of the time is letting someone sleep one off."

Hallsy scoffs. "Yeah, but like, for real guests."

It is nice, Jordan figures. The whole "making it on your own" thing is nice. They have things on the wall, cars that run, a box with Christmas written on the side in Hallsy's big chicken scratch writing, and an actual linen closet with spare sets of sheets and extra blankets.

"I think we do a pretty baller job of being grown ups, Hallsy."

They fuck around on NHL '12 until Jordan's mom shows up and tells them they have to carry the tree up themselves if they want it.

They order in for dinner, though, because no one trusts them to make a real ham without burning down the whole complex. So, maybe they're not so great at adulthood, but they've got all the parts that matter under control.

\-----

Jordan doesn't see it coming. It's not an intentional hit, so no one gets boxed for it, but someone catches a divot on the ice and slides face-first into Jordan's knee. At least three people go down, but Jordan's the only one who doesn't get back up.

Whistles blow, fans go silent, and Jordan takes a second to try and swallow around how thick his tongue feels. Taylor's at his side, because he hadn't been too far away when the hit happened, and he's talking but Ebs isn't listening.

"Jordan. Come on, baby, get up."

"I'm not-" He takes a shaky breath and tries to move. His leg hurts, like a dull ache, but he can move his toes and nothing feels broken so he doesn't start panicking.

"Eberle," the trainers start shoving everyone out of the way and one of the refs is skating Taylor away. "Don't move."

He can do that.

They assess him while both teams clear off the ice, but Taylor won't go until they start making motions to stand Ebs up. Taylor bullies his way around the medical staff and gets on the same side as Jordan's hurt leg. He pulls Jordan into a sitting position, then up in his feet. "Come on, beautiful. That's it."

Jordan's too out of it to protest at Taylor's babying, but he's grateful to have Hallsy holding him up when he figures out he can't support his full weight on his right leg. It's not bone, and it doesn't feel like his ACL, so Jordan's got hopes it's just a muscle pull.

The stands are yelling, clapping, stamping their feet, as he gets carted off the ice and into the locker room, and he desperately hopes the Oilers win after this.

The trainers confirm to him, later, after every doctor on the medical staff clustered around him and prodded his leg, that it was just a muscle pull. They were going to pull him for a week, minimum, but possibly as long as a month if he doesn't heal as fast as they would like.

Hallsy takes him home, a pinched look on his face as he drives down the familiar Edmonton streets. Jordan's got a fresh bottle of muscle relaxers in a white paper bag on his lap and his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window. It's peaceful, even as shitty as the situation is, to just drive home in silence and not have to think about anything.

When they get home, Hallsy looks like he's about fifteen seconds away from picking Jordan up and carrying him up the stairs, but Jordan just loops an arm around Taylor's waist and says, "we'll have to get some crutches."

He installs himself on the couch, with two pillows propping his leg up, and the TV on low for company. After changing out of his suit for some sweats, Taylor turns the rest of the lights out and kicks back in his spot next to Jordan. Ebs still says this couch was their best purchase to date and he's counting when they went house shopping and rented this apartment in that scenario.

It's possible he's a little hopped up on drugs.

Taylor gives him a tight smile, and turns on his side. He pillows his head on his hand and keeps taking a breath like he's going to say something.

"Out with it, kid."

"That... was a bad hit, Jordan."

Jordan feels a little bad that Taylor had to witness it. He doesn't remember the pain very well anymore, and the shock of the hit had kept him from remembering everything that led up to it, but he's been on the other end of this and watched other guys get hit. It sends that weird electrical jolt of pain through your nerves that leaves you a little weak with empathy and you get to remember every second of it.

"Two weeks," he says. "And I'll be fine. Coach said so. I told them I had you to be my bitch so I won't even have to do anything strenuous. Besides, I'm not a big, fucking baby, like you, no matter what you say. Beautiful, huh?"

"Whatever."

Jordan smiles and feels Taylor's hand sneak down to hold his. "Admit it, you like my tooth gap."

If Taylor's embarrassed by anything he said on the ice, he doesn't show it. He scoots closer and basically lays his head right on Ebs' shoulder. "Yeah, Ebby. Your janky teeth bring all the boys to yard."

Jordan figures he should probably make a joke about how it's not boys he's usually trying to attract, but right now, he really doesn't give a fuck. "Go tell them to get off our lawn."

"We don't have a lawn, you non."

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, until Jordan feels Taylor start to fall asleep, and he squeezes his fingers together. "Hey, come on, Tay. You can't sleep here. It's gonna fuck up your shoulder."

"It'll be fine."

"If you're out of commission, who's going to take care of me?"

Taylor edges closer and takes his hand back from Ebs' death grip. He smooths it over Jordan's chest and loops the arm underneath him around Jordan's bicep. "We'll call your mom to take care of us both."

Jordan smirks into Taylor's hair, but feels better knowing they've got a contingency plan for when their poor decision making skills and lack of forethought catch up with them.

\-----

Jordan loves being on the road. He doesn't mind living out of his suitcase or spending hours on the airplane. It would probably suck a lot more if he didn't get to do these things with his best friends and teammates, but since his life is pretty fucking ace, he doesn't mind it at all.

He does fucking mind dealing with Hallsy's haphazard packing and procrastination.

Gags is there, because he's a fucking functional adult who can pack his own clothes, and he is almost peeing himself with laughter. Jordan's eying the booze on their countertop speculatively and wishing he had another best friend.

"Jordan!" Hallsy shouts, for probably the fifth time in the last hour.

"What?"

"Where's my black Henley?"

Jordan buries his face in his arms and thinks fondly of not sharing space with Taylor for a few days. "Which black Henley?"

"My good one!"

Gags is gasping with laughter at this point. "How many henleys does the man own?"

"Too fucking many."

Taylor got tired of waiting, apparently, because he stomps in the hall in nothing but his jeans with the belt undone and repeats his question.

"Guest in the house!" Gags shouts, pretending to hide his eyes behind his hands.

Jordan's getting new friends.

"It's still in the laundry. You wore it two days ago."

Taylor huffs and stomps back in his room. Jordan thinks the worst of it is over, but the shouting starts again.

"What am I supposed to wear now?"

"I don't know, Taylor! How about the nine thousand other shirts you've got?"

"You're a good husband," Sam says, pulling out two beers and opening them with his key ring. "You keep him in line."

"Damn straight I am. I pity the poor girl that Hallsy falls for some day. She's going to have to put up with his shit. She'll probably be better at it than me," he chuckles.

"Well, my wife is much better at everything than I am. It is the way of wives. What about your own hypothetical, future wife?"

Jordan shrugs and picks at the label on his beer. "Hallsy'll get married first."

Sam smiles and bumps shoulders with him. "He said the same thing about you."

Taylor comes back in wearing a t-shirt with Jordan's name and a big number fourteen on his back and says, "what did I forget?"

"Your toothpaste," Jordan answers before Sam can say something gross and inappropriate.

"Motherfucker," Taylor says with feeling before he tears back down the hall.

"What a good husband," Sam repeats.

Jordan smiles, because he's had a lot of practice at taking care of Taylor Hall, asks, "should I teach the future Mrs. Hall all I know or let her sort it out for herself?"

"Jordan!"

Sam snorts and clinks their bottles together. "She'll figure it out."

\-----

Jordan stomps into the apartment, grateful for the rush of warmth that being inside brings. His cheeks are wind-chapped and red, stinging as the blood rushed back into them, and his hands feel like icicles. He shakes the snow from his boots and has serious thoughts about not taking his coat off for a few more minutes, or at least until his lungs didn’t feel so tight anymore. He is dripping onto their laminate flooring, though, and Taylor would bitch at him later if it started to bubble or warp.

“We should probably buy a doormat,” he announces to the empty room. He hangs up all his outerwear and toes his boots off, kicking them into jumble of shoes on the floor of the closet. Coffee sounds great right then, if only to hold something warm in his hands, and he shiver and shakes his way into the kitchen to attempt to brew a cup or two. Taylor, who is a traitor, is probably all warm and toasty in his bed and next time Jordan goes home to visit, he’s dragging Hallsy out into the cold with him.

He washes his hands in hot water and that is his first mistake. The water burns on his raw skin and he hisses, shutting the water off. His shirt is too thin, more about fashion than warmth, and he can’t seem the shake the feeling that he’s cold somewhere deep inside of him. Jordan hopes this isn’t the forerunner to getting sick and makes another valiant attempt at coffee.

He’s watching the coffee drip into the pot when he feels Taylor’s hands on his waist.

“You just get back?”

Jordan jumps a little, but Taylor’s hands are so warm and he’s still so cold that he can’t stop himself from leaning back a little.

“Yeah. Great welcoming committee, Tay. Making my own coffee. Had to carry my own suitcase up the stairs. We need a doormat, by the way.”

“Did you get snow everywhere? The flooring’s going to, like, buckle and crap.”

“Get a towel or something.”

Taylor pulls away, which reminds Jordan he was on a mission for coffee, and starts rummaging through the kitchen drawers. “Do you care if I use this towel?” He holds up one of their many nondescript dish towels and Jordan waves him on. The coffee’s too hot to drink yet, but it feels good to hold, even though his hands are still a little numb.

“Way to ask me how my trip went, asshole.”

Taylor’s soaking up the water with the towel, his barefoot nudging the towel around. The ends of his pajama pants are pooling around his ankle and soaking up the little bit left behind. He does smile, though, and shrug his shoulders, which Jordan takes as consent to do whatever he wants.

“Mom and Dad say hey and also that you have to come with next time. I think I should be offended because I think they like you better?”

Taylor laughs, because he’s that kind of toolbag, and glances up, looking entirely too smug for his own good.

“Also, it’s, like, probably minus twenty out there.” He takes a drink and burns his tongue a little for his trouble, but he doesn’t care because the way the rest of that warmth is blooming through his chest is worth it. “ I think the ice has finally started to melt from, like, my eyelashes and everything. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, tossing the towel into the kitchen sink to dry out. “I noticed, from all the snow in our fucking doorway.” He’s smiling as he says it, though, so Jordan doesn’t feel the need to get offended. “Come on, babe. You still look like a popsicle.”

Jordan sets his coffee down and lets Taylor wrap his arms around him. Taylor’s so warm, Jordan doesn’t even feel bad about sneaking his hand underneath Hallsy’s t-shirt and burying his cold nose in his neck. “You’ve been sleeping with my electric blanket, haven’t you?”

“You weren’t home,” Taylor says blankly, which is as much of an admission of guilt as Jordan’s going to get.  

“We could always just turn the actual heat on,” Jordan bitches, like he doesn’t completely agree with Taylor’s stance on keeping the thermostat at a nice, neutral temperature and dressing for the weather.

“Or, I left the blanket on and it’s too fucking early in the morning to be awake.”

Jordan’s man enough to concede that that is definitely the better suggestion. He leaves his coffee on the counter to go cold and trails behind Taylor to the master bedroom.

\-----

“Jordan Eberle, you goddamn beauty, you.” Taylor crows, swiping Jordan up in his arms and kissing his temple. “What a fucking goal.”

“Save it for at home, kids,” Sam says, but he’s smiling like a look, clapping Jordan on the back. The press has already cleared out and most of the guys with them, but Taylor and Jordan had both been held up by the cameras, talking about their overtime goal that clinched the game for the Oilers. He waves them off with a “good game” and leaves.

“No, but really. Fucking A’, Ebs, that was beautiful.” Nuge shakes his head a little, spraying little droplets of water everywhere, but Jordan doesn’t care. It was beautiful. That shit was going to be every highlight reel and ESPN Top Ten list for a week, at least.

Taylor’s already showered and half-dressed by the time Jordan is able to wipe the smirk off his face. No one is around to see him, though, so he feels okay with grinning like an idiot the whole time he’s in the shower.

They drive home in a flurry of excitement, recounting the game back a hundred times. The rush never dulls and the story never stays the same but right now, they are content to let history be written by the victors. Despite the excitement of the moment - Jordan’s phone has been blowing up since it happened - they’ve got another game tomorrow and they’ve got to settle down when really all they would rather do is get drunk and keep living in the moment.

Jordan supposes that’s what growing up feels like - being able to let go of moments so you can move on to the next one.

In the morning, he still feels like he’s floating on cloud nine. He wakes up with a smile on his face and laughs to himself in the shower. They’ve got a skate this morning - just something light to keep them loose and warm for their second game - but it’s early enough for a leisurely breakfast before they’ve got to pack up. He doesn’t expect Taylor to already be up, but he’s sitting at the breakfast bar, half asleep with a piece of toast in one hand and the sports page in the other. He’s feeling brave, with the memory of Taylor’s chapped lips and sweaty face from last night still fresh, so he pulls his hands out of his sweatshirt sleeves and slides them over Hallsy’s shoulders and lays them flat on his chest. Taylor makes a little noise, but doesn’t pull away. Jordan presses his lips to the crown of Taylor’s head, then, and smiles against his hair when he looks at the newspaper and sees himself, arms raised in victory, on the front page.

“Morning.”

Taylor tips his head back to rest on Jordan’s collarbone and doesn’t even bitch about him stealing from his pile of toast. “I’m too tired to go to skate. Tell them... I don’t know, tell them I died in my sleep and you’re waiting until after practice to bury me.”

“That’s drastic.”

“You’d bury me, right?”

Jordan chews on his toast and leans against Taylor’s back. “Pretty sure I’d try to get you medical attention first.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Taylor says, a little sarcastically, and Jordan feels like he missed a memo somewhere in this conversation. He feels way too young and invincible to be talking about what he’s going to do when he dies.

“But, if you want me to, I’ll bury you. Pick out which suit you want now so I don’t have to guess.”

Taylor snorts and turns his face into Jordan’s neck. It seems Jordan’s answer mollified whatever weird, existential crisis Taylor was having and he’s content to stay wrapped up together with the white sunlight of winter in Canada streaming through their balcony doors.

“You smell good.”

Jordan tries not to smile, but he fails so miserably, he has to steal Taylor’s coffee to hide it better. “Some of us bathe regularly. At home, even.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s fucking scary to be this happy, Jordan thinks, and holds on a little tighter. It’s probably going to end badly, he figures. There are only so many ways for best friends to part, especially when the city you live in is dictated by the team you play for, and none of those endings feel good to Jordan. He wants to brace himself for all of them, even the one that ends with him burying Taylor in his best suit, but he can’t. He just want to hold onto this forever.

Maybe he’s not so grown up after all.

\-----

They are all in the bus on the way back to the airport, flying home to Edmonton after a week on the road, when Jordan’s cell phone rings in his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sir. My name is Janice, I’m calling regarding your cable bill. Is this Mr. Hall or Mr. Eberle?”

This is definitely a little outside of Jordan’s depth, but apparently, Hallsy isn’t answering his phone from where he’s sitting with Nail four rows back, so he tries to handle this dilemma himself. “This is Mr. Eberle, but you’re probably going to end up talking to Mr. Hall before this conversation is over.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Eberle. How are you feeling today?”

He grudgingly answers the myriad of scripted prompts built to create the illusion of polite conversation or whatever, and thanks God Taylor picked security questions he knew the answers to, all while trying to not sigh too loudly into the receiver.

“We just had a concern about your last payment. It seems like the payment did not come through and as you and Mr. Hall have been outstanding customers, this is a courtesy call-” Jordan stops listening at this point. It’s flat up bill collecting is what it is and he tells the artificial voice on the other end of the line to hold on for a moment.

“Taylor!” he hisses over his shoulder. He swats at Nuge’s knee when he sees that Taylor’s got his headphones on and his slouched down in his seat like he’s asleep. A series of slaps and pokes later, Taylor sits up with a sigh and says, “what.”

“Did you pay the cable bill?”

“All that shit comes out of the bank automatically. Check the account on your phone.”

Jordan kind of wishes they weren’t doing this with an audience, and Janice hanging impatiently on the other end of his line, but life is annoyingly inconvenient like that.

“I’m kind of talking to them on my phone right now. Check on yours.”

“Let me talk to them.” Jordan shrugs and tosses his phone back to Hallsy, catching Hallsy’s phone in turn so he can check their account on their bank’s app. They make Taylor go back through the security questions again, which is slightly offensive when Jordan clearly just verified that they are the account holders, and brings up their itemized list of expenses and deposits. He can see where they have paid the cable bill on the third of the month every month except this one.

“I don’t think they took it out, Hallsy.”

Taylor gets put on hold twice, accused of having insufficient funds three times, and finally gets someone who says, “oh, our servers were down on the third and fourth of this month. No one’s payments went through. If you’ll just write us a check, I’ll make sure to put a note on the account so no late penalties will be assigned to you” before he hangs up and they trade phones back.

It only take Nuge about fifteen seconds after that to say, “wait a second, you guys have one bank account?”

“No,” Jordan says, defensively. “We have our own savings accounts. We just have one checking account.”

“Oh my fucking God.”

“Oh, shit,” Sam yells, waking up anyone on the bus who wasn’t already awake. “That’s fucking gold.”

“I’m tweeting that,” Nail pipes up, which prompts Taylor to steal his phone.

“No one is tweeting anything.”

Nuge snickers behind his hand. “How dare you deprive us?”

“Please, please, please tell me you have checks with both of your names on them,” Sam play-begs. “And kittens. Kittens in, like, fucking baskets with flowers and shit.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Taylor pouts, hating to be the butt of a joke he doesn’t find all that funny.

“Of course you don’t, Hallsy,” Ryan placates, all while looking like the canary who caught the cream. “Just remember, combining your money makes for a messier divorce.”

“Don’t worry, Tay,” Jordan says, around the sudden tightness in his throat. He’s trying to make a joke to cover up the weird sinking hole of anxiety in his chest. “I will definitely fight you over our first game puck instead of the money.”

Taylor frowns, slips his headphones back on, and shuts down instead of responding.

Jordan definitely feels way worse than he did ten minutes ago. The only consolation he can find is that the guys can definitely sense they over-stepped a line somewhere in the chirping and have all awkwardly sat back in their seats, leaving Jordan alone to pick at the gnawing feeling he has in peace.

\-----

Jordan’s napping on the couch when he feels the couch dip and his weight shift to the left. He doesn’t open his eyes, just moves a little closer to the edge and lets Taylor stretch out along his back, half on top of Jordan and half squashed against the cushions.

“We have beds,” Jordan grumbles as Taylor pushes his limbs around to make himself more comfortable, and doesn’t say a word. “Seriously, they are big beds. All kinds of room. Pillows, even.”

“Shut up.”

He can do that.

He wiggles around a little to make a little more room for Taylor’s shoulders, and keeps quiet when he gets a noseful of red hair for his troubles. He knows Taylor’s not good at keeping things to himself for long - at least, not around Jordan - so he figures he can catch a few more ZZZs before they have to talk about feelings or anything.

Taylor, though, because he likes to keep Jordan on his toes, rests his chin on Jordan’s sternum and stares at him for a few seconds. The pressure is painful and uncomfortable, but Taylor looks like he’s a second away from bolting out the door and not saying anything, so Jordan endures.

“Is it weird?”

Jordan kind of feels like a tool for having to ask but there is a lot that Taylor could be referencing here and he can’t read minds, not even Taylor’s.

“Is what weird, babe?”

That makes Hallsy huff out a sigh and lay his head back down on Jordan’s chest. “That. This. Us.”

Jordan cards his fingers through Taylor’s hair for a second and doesn’t answer. He has to unpack what he’s being asked here first, and it kind of hits him why Taylor had closed down when the guys had all been laughing at them.

He’s glad that Taylor’s not looking at him anymore, because he’s not sure he could say the things he needs to say if he was. “Yes, Hallsy. It kind of is.”

Taylor stiffens, all of his limbs going rigid and tight around Jordan’s chest. Jordan clenches his fingers into Taylor’s hair and forces himself to breathe. He knows that Taylor can hear his heart thundering against his chest, just like he can feel thrum of Hallsy’s pulse under his fingertips when they ghost over his neck. This is one of those moments, the “be a man” moment his mom and dad were always talking about when he was growing up; taking your penalty, protecting your friends, be respectful to the people around you, and saying the hard things even though you’re scared of the consequences.

“But I like it. Being weird with you.”

Taylor relaxes a little and turns so that his face is nestled more comfortably into the space between Jordan’s shoulder and neck. He can feel Taylor’s breath and, sometimes, the edges of his lips catching on his skin, and he waits. He’s got a bad feeling he’s going to be waiting on Taylor for the rest of his life. It’s not such a distressing prospect, if he thinks about it.

“I bet that’s what you say to all the guys.”

Taylor’s jokes were terrible. They didn’t make sense to anybody but himself, were far too derivative from the worn material of a thousand made-for-tv movies and network television, and Jordan fucking loved him for it.

“No,” he whispers as Taylor kisses his neck, fingers clenching into the muscles on Hallsy’s back. “Just you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd.


End file.
